


All that he has

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Community: got_exchange, F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 03:40:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A character study of Petyr Baelish, and his relationships with the Tully sisters and Sansa Stark.  </p>
<p>Written for got_exchange on LiveJournal, for the prompt:  A small group of thoughtful people could change the world. Indeed, it's the only thing that ever has. (Margaret Mead)</p>
            </blockquote>





	All that he has

Cat is nothing but a memory to him now. He sees her only in flashes, out of the corner of his eye when her child or sister are near, or in those rare moments when he permits his guard to drop, when it is late at night and he walks the silent halls of the Eyrie, taking in the strange domain that has somehow become his existence. He had not ever thought to be here, in the Vale of Arryn, so removed from the solidity of his own upbringing on the Fingers, meager existence though it was. And the rarified air here is far from the earthy reality of his boyhood in Riverrun. The mud from the waters would stain his garments, not so fine in those days, to be sure, giving a dirty credence to his days, first his mean beginning, then his borrowed finery, and finally his fall from grace. 

Petyr no longer begrudges Hoster Tully or Brandon Stark for what they’ve done, or at least that is what he tells himself when he regards his kingdom. It is so easy to lean into the frigid air, to gaze down on the vast lands below his reach, absolving others of their past sins while he imagines how he will take them in, take them all. It is easy to be generous, for they are dead, and he is alive. He has survived. He, in the end, has triumphed. And he will have further victory. Lysa asleep in her grandiose bed in her gaudy gown will see to that. She will put the key to the kingdom in his hand once again, just as she did not so long ago in Kings Landing. Her girlhood dreams had only lain in stasis while she forged her misshapen life with Jon Arryn and their only surviving son, likely the pleasantness held in the back of her mind that took her away from the empty pursuits of court life, of base intrigue, of the beds of blood as she birthed dead child after dead child.

He remembers how easy it was. Petyr will not count it as a triumph as he does his other successes. Lysa’s hand was in his first rise to power, albeit small, but it was his own savvy at Gulltown that led to his rise towards Kings Landing, until he found himself on the Small Council, controlling the gold of the realm. Here he was still mocked, still a small man in the eyes of those like Selmy and Pycelle, those elder statesmen fortunate enough to have the weight of history and good family on their side. And for those like Varys, likewise hardscrabble and newly-made, his existence cut too close and was rife for defensive mockery. But he had smiled as he always had, courteous Littlefinger who would only grin and nod and spin stone into gold, filling coffers empty far too often for a king almost as newly-made as he was. 

And Lysa was there. Lysa welcomed him into her bed, her husband burning candle after candle, forging the new realm in lieu of his former foster-son, laying foundations that stretched higher than the lofty words of his house, _as high as honor_ , or higher. Petyr had taken a grim pleasure in bedding his wife, but he had enjoyed more how easy it was to gain her confidence. And when he had put the vial of poison in her hand, slack with pleasure, limp with sleep, and whispered the instructions in her ear, she was all too willing to comply. All too eager to make what had been a childish fantasy a reality in her mind, murdering her husband to protect her child, throwing the realm into chaos. 

Petyr did not mind it. He does not mind it now, for it has been the only time that he has truly felt alive, when he sees the game lining up around him, everything careening out of control, spinning toward inevitable ruin. 

Perhaps that is why he caused his wife to fall. Perhaps that is why he brought the girl here. Sansa Stark, cloaked in brown dye and roughspun, his alleged daughter now, Alayne Stone. And now he stands, observing her. 

It is not so much how she reacts that thrills Petyr, but rather how she doesn’t. The air cuts through the high hall, whistling through the still gaping Moon Door. Alayne still half-kneels, her arms wrapped tightly around one bone-white pillar, her hair, torn free from its fastenings in the struggle, whipping about her pale face. When the guards burst in to find their mistress gone, in their alarm they are quick to pin the blame on the singer, to believe exactly what Petyr tells them. Marillion is so easily flustered, and such an extreme reaction is easily mistaken for guilt. Common blood outs, after all, and we believe what is easiest. 

Petyr watches the girl though as he speaks, expecting something to betray him, a sharp intake of breath, or perhaps a change in her expression. But Alayne’s face is as smooth as the marble that she clings to, as inscrutable as the snows that can be seen from the opening in the wall, now slowly closing under the duress of the Arryn men. Now, they are his men, or they will be. Just as the Vale will be his, if not in name, through his own influence. He has done it before, bought lords greater than himself with well-placed coin, a promising position, a threat veiled with a smile. 

Petyr meets her eyes across the room. They are blank, and he shivers. Whether it is with relief or dread, he cannot say.

“Alayne,” he says then, and the guardsmen watch as he takes first his bastard daughter’s hand, then her arm, wrapping her tightly in his own cloak, the gaudy fabric a sharp contrast to her own drab gown. “Come back where it’s safe. I don’t intend to lose you too.” 

His voice shakes, and although it is mostly for the benefit of their audience, he is slightly stunned by how close she has come to doom. Nonetheless, he allows them to see the doting father, Lord Baelish, so good to his bastard by-blow. After all, she is all that he has left. 

Alayne looks at him again, and her lips curl slightly. “You won’t,” she whispers. “You won’t…Father.” A single tear trickles down her cheek as he leads her away. It does not escape the notice of the crowd now filing into the hall, clucking with sympathy, sad faces, yet still cast in approving expressions. Poor Lord Petyr, now a widow, his wife murdered, his only heir this leggy girl of low birth who he now so tenderly comforts. 

And later, much later, when it is dark and the castle sleeps, he sees her wandering in the corridors, robe clutched around her shoulders, as if to preserve her from the horrors that have recently played out before her. She permits him to lead her into his solar, sits next to him by the fire, his own furs thrown round her to check the shivering that still courses through her body. Her eyes, blue as the sky that surrounds them, blue as the waters of her mother’s ancestral home, blue as her mother’s, in fact, meet his in the dim light. They are dry now. 

“She fell,” Alayne says softly. “He did not push her. I saw-” But she does not continue. She only looks at the fire. 

“She would have killed you,” Petyr replies after a fashion, ensuring that his voice is gentle, without a trace of mockery. “You would have flown forever, daughter.”

Alayne shudders then, and he pulls the furs tighter around her. She nods slowly. “Perhaps it was-” 

She trails off again, her face reddened by the flames. 

“For the best,” Petyr murmurs, finishing the thought, watching her.

There is really nothing more of Cat about her face, none of that pure beauty that he had so prized, that would likely have faded had she lived her days out on the Fingers. And there is nothing more of Lysa either. Sometimes when she sat dreaming, her mouth softened, reminiscent of her aunt during her girlhood, dreaming of monsters and maidens and lady’s favors. He will train her, he thinks, he will teach her how to rise as he has, aided by the masks of courtesy and underestimation. She has already begun to learn the game, her instruction begun at Kings Landing under madness. Her survival thus far is a miracle, a testament to the skills that she already possesses, the strength that burns within her. It can only increase, and he will be the one to guide it.

Alayne drowses from the heat, her breathing steady and even, her face peaceful. Petyr watches her into the night, remembering. 

They will have the Vale, and soon. The lords bannermen will not be too difficult to win over, and he will so kindly vow to speak for and protect their sickly liege, now an orphan. And while he faces this challenge, his daughter will look on and absorb all. He will wed his Alayne to the Hardyng boy, and in doing so, will wake the wolf that hibernates here under illusion and pretense. And after that, it will only be a matter of time before the rest falls into place.


End file.
